


Nothing I Expected, Everything I Wanted

by gryvon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Feeding, Good Peter Hale, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale Cooks, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, Sub Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/pseuds/gryvon
Summary: The hand in Stiles's hair trails down, touch ghosting lightly over his shoulders to settle at the small of his back. He's guided forward. He doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't need to see where they're going. He trusts Peter not to let him fall.





	Nothing I Expected, Everything I Wanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShippersList](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/gifts).



> This is marked underage because Stiles is 17 but no sex occurs. (Sorry.)

Stiles shoots nervous glances down the empty hallway as he waits in front of Peter's door. He's so scared that someone will see him, and while there's nothing _illegal_ about waiting outside an older man's door, he knows what people will think. They'd be right, of course, but he doesn't want word somehow getting back to his dad. The sub visiting a Dom part could be overlooked but an underage, unmated Omega visiting an Alpha would bring his dad along with most of the Sherriff's Department kicking down Peter's door, even if his eighteenth birthday—and graduation—are less than two months away.

Thankfully, he doesn't have long to stew before Peter opens the door. He slides through as soon as there's enough space to reasonably squeeze through.

"A little eager, darling?" Peter asks with an arched eyebrow.

Stiles shrugs and toes off his shoes, leaving them lined up next to Peter's beside the door. He starts to venture further into the apartment but is stopped by a cool hand on the back of his bare neck. Peter doesn't even have to grip Stiles's flesh. The touch alone is enough to make Stiles still. Peter's hand slides up to card through Stiles's hair. It's getting longer than Stiles usually wears it. Peter likes it that way so Stiles doesn't bother getting it cut. His eyes slide closed and he leans into the touch like a man starved.

He supposes he is. Starved, that is. They both are, for gentle touch and affection.

Peter slides Stiles's bookbag from his shoulder. The hand in his hair trails down, touch ghosting lightly over his shoulders to settle at the small of his back. He's guided forward. He doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't need to see where they're going. He trusts Peter not to let him fall.

Gentle hands turn him and ease him down onto the couch. Peter kisses Stiles's forehead, then moves away, deeper into the apartment, taking Stiles's bag with him. He absently follows Peter's progress into the bedroom where he'll leave Stiles's bag next to the dresser Peter's cleared for him, full of clothes Peter bought for him. Soft footsteps head back toward him then divert into the open kitchen. The oven door opens. Stiles smells something amazing, beefy and vinegary. It makes him think of warmth and a loving home.

Peter moves around him, setting things on the glass coffee table. There's a light thunk of what might be a ceramic plate and the clink of glass on glass. Peter's blunt nails scratch ever so gently over Stiles's scalp. He leans into the touch but it's gone seconds later. Something soft presses against his face. It's his sleep mask, one side silky smooth, the other fuzzy and warm. It slides over his eyes and blocks out the ambient light. He relaxes a little more as the need to keep his eyes closed is taken away.

A light touch on his elbow makes him stand. Peter's touch is reverent as he slides Stiles's flannel from his shoulders. He directs Stiles's body as he needs, lifting Stiles's arms so his t-shirt can be removed as well. A new shirt is slipped over his head, the fabric warm from being stored in Peter's cozy apartment and softer than anything Stiles would ever buy for himself.

Stiles's jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped. He blushes when they fall to the floor. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the exposed feeling he gets when his clothes come off around Peter. His underwear follows. Peter guides him into lifting one foot, then the other. They repeat as he steps into a new pair of pants. Peter's hands caress his legs, up and down, before pulling the soft sweatpants up to rest loose on Stiles's hips.

Peter takes Stiles's hands in his and guides him around the coffee table. He smiles as his feet brush against fuzzy fabric. Peter helps him sit, much lower this time, on a soft, thick cushion on the floor. Stiles sighs. Something settles deep inside, the part of him that is intrinsically "sub" and "Omega." Peter sits behind him, legs bracketing Stiles. He lets his head tilt to the side to rest on one of Peter's knees.

"Good boy," Peter praises. He runs both hands through Stiles's hair and over his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there until Stiles is boneless and pliant. "Tell me what troubles you, darling."

Stiles sighs again, less world-weary this time and more resigned. "We fought again."

He doesn't need to specify who. It's a common refrain. He'd thought his dad finding out about the supernatural would lessen their fights, that he wouldn't have to lie anymore, but they fight more and he lies about different things. They fight about how defenseless he—a pitiful sub—is against supernatural creatures so he lies about the dangerous situations his magic lets him triumph over. They fight about how an unmated Omega shouldn't be around so many unpredictable Alphas—especially the Alphas that are werewolves—so he lies about the fact that he's not as unmated as his dad thinks. They're waiting until Stiles is legal and no longer in high school to have a private ceremony right before his next heat.

There are so many things his dad thinks Stiles can't or shouldn't do but Stiles is not about to stop living his life just because his friends group resembles a Dungeons and Dragons adventuring party rather than something off a teenage sitcom. Unless the teen sitcom is Buffy the Vampire Slayer, then it's scarily accurate.

"What else?"

"The house feels so empty."

Peter kisses the top of his head. His hands slide forward to massage Stiles's pecs. It's a weird place for a massage but it makes Stiles melt against Peter every time.

"You're welcome here any time," Peter says, his voice sure and confident in a way Stiles doesn't think he'll ever feel.

He nuzzles Peter's leg. "Thank you."

"Any time, darling."

Peter caresses the side of Stiles's face. Stiles could fall asleep like this. He has before, but the tantalizing smell of Peter's cooking keeps him awake.

As if reading his mind, Peter asks, "Are you hungry, darling?"

He nods against Peter's thigh. The delicious smell moves closer as Peter shifts the plate to his lap. There's a soft scrape of fork against ceramic.

"Open." He opens his mouth obediently. Warm, savory beef touches his tongue. He accepts the morsel, closing his mouth so Peter can slide the fork out. The taste of gravy and red wine vinegar fills his mouth. He chews and swallows, then opens his mouth for more. Peter feeds him a chunk of potato next, then carrots and more tender beef, one bite at a time.

He loses himself in the rhythm of the meal. He tilts his head back for sips of cool orange juice, no pulp, just the way he likes. Peter doesn't eat until Stiles signals that he's full. Stiles drifts then, relaxing while Peter finishes the plate. Peter plays with Stiles's hair absently, drawing patterns on Stiles's skull with the pads of his fingers.

"Would you like to watch anything?" Peter asks what feels like hours later.

Stiles shakes his head. He's drifting too much to pay attention.

"What would you like?"

"Can we lay down?"

"Of course. Wait here for just a moment."

Peter rises and takes their dishes into the kitchen. The water runs for a few minutes. Peter prefers to wash his dishes by hand when it's just the two of them. When he's done, he lifts Stiles in a bridal carry, holding Stiles close to his chest as he carries Stiles into the bedroom. He settles Stiles under the covers and tucks the blankets around Stiles. Stiles listens to Peter's nightly rituals—changing into his own pajamas, brushing his teeth, washing his face. The bathroom door closes briefly while Peter relieves himself.

"Is there anything I can get for you, sweetheart?"

Stiles shakes his head against his pillow, then follows with a whispered, "No, thank you."

Peter joins him in bed. Stiles reaches across the sheets until he finds Peter's body and slides over until he's pressed against Peter's chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him tight and safe. He feels protected. Nothing can get him here. Not his father's disapproval or Harris's pointed barbs or his classmates' teasing. He doesn't have to worry about final exams or college acceptance letters or future housing arrangements. There is only the darkness and Peter and the warm cocoon of their shared bed.

It's everything Stiles ever wanted and everything he needs. It's perfect.


End file.
